Why Are You Not In Ravenclaw?
by LionessInTheSmoke
Summary: Short Johnlock fragments from Hogwarts. Rated for language, unconventional drug-taking and slightly sticky sheets. You got the bit where I said Johnlock, yes?


AN - I am unaware of any universe were Sherlock does not fancy John, and happy in my ignorance thank you.

With that in mind, Johnlock meeting at Hogwarts. And swearing.

Apologies and rights to those that truly own all the lovely things.

* * *

Slytherin! Slytherin! Slytherin! Slytherin! Chanted the dark haired boy, sat on the wobbly stool with his fists tightly balled, as the hat was sat on his head and his nostrils were invaded by the unpleasant odor of hundreds of years worth of dust and grease and sweat and hair products. The last pureblood prat (some kind of relative he had to regularly delete) had actually been wearing pomade.

"No!" The hat's voice was definite and may have contained a hint of a shiver, and was squeakier than he had expected from the inane singing. "That is quite possibly the worst idea I have heard in a century of sortings. Your reasoning is entirely Ravenclaw curiosity, but you could do well following your brother into Hufflepuff. He learnt a lot there that you could benefit from too..."

"Not. Hufflepuff! I will not follow my fat, smelly brother."

"Very well. Perhaps you will find the lessons you need in Gyffindor!"

At the high table, Professor McGonnigal sent a smug look down the high table to Professor Snape. She would come to regret that look over the next five years, deeply and regularly.

The boy tore the hat from his head, and, for a split second, a look of total disbelief could be seen on his pale face. Then it was gone and he marched to his House's table, throwing himself down on the end of the bench in what was obviously indicative of an almighty sulk and ignoring the rest of the ceremony completely. After all, he could have sorted his yearmates just as accurately as the hat before they'd even boarded the train in London, so it was just a boring waste of his time.

* * *

Gryffindor's new 5th year prefect and quidditch goal keeper, John Watson, looked down the bench at his House's newest member and had a Very Bad Feeling.

* * *

"Sherlock has landed in Gryffindor, Dear."

"Well, the hat wasn't really left with any other option with him was it? I would bet he asked for Slytherin and turned down Hufflepuff."

"And what would have been wrong with Ravenclaw?"

"Dull Dear, much too dull."

* * *

Sherlock had brought a toad as his familiar. He thought they were much more interesting than cats or owls. Victor was not a particularly interesting toad, but he didn't interrupt when Sherlock explained things to him and did not require much maintenance either. Which was probably for the best, Sherlock was not exactly good at taking care of even himself.

Sherlock could fly, but didn't. He preferred to apparate (illegal at his age, how dull), or portkey (highly illegal at any age as he rarely bothered obtaining official ministry portkeys at an approved outlet), as necessary. Why waste time actually traveling somewhere? He didn't see the point in flying for fun and quidditch was too dull for words.

Sherlock had read all of Hogwarts' set texts by the time he was ten. (What else was Mycroft good for?) His wand work was flawless, his brewing "innovative" and his knowledge of the dark arts would have terrified his classmates if they'd realized its true depth. He had a corporeal patronus (an Irish setter) and was a registered animagus (canis lupus albus, with embarrassing curls on his ruff which he was hoping he would grow out of). If he had been more careful about practicing, Cakecroft never would have found out and no one would know about the curls. Or the form at all.

Lessons were so duuuull. Fortunately, the school itself wasn't. It constantly had new surprises for him. Also, the Forest ("Forbidden! Mr Holmes! The name says it all." Honestly Sherlock didn't see what McGonnigal was upset about. She didn't even know about the samples he had managed to take and the Forest was only dangerous if you were unprepared or stupid. Sherlock was of course neither.) and the lake ("Do you not upset enough people here? Must you also be offensive in Merish?"). Some of the teachers were interesting observation subjects too. The Muggle Studies teacher for instance, although Sherlock was highly skeptical about much of his information, and of course the highly dangerous young Professor Snape (who Fatcroft had strongly advised he leave in peace, and for once Sherlock was inclined to follow that advice). If only he didn't have to go the lessons, or share a room with three pubescent idiots, he would have found life at Hogwarts quite acceptable.

* * *

Victor did not return to Hogwarts with Sherlock in his third year, there had been an unfortunate incident with a terrier during the holidays. He had a new toad that, had anyone asked him, he would have told them he called Bufo, but that he didn't know his name. Nobody asked him though because nobody really spoke to him if they could avoid it. That was fine by Sherlock, they were all stupid anyway.

* * *

John Watson was quite sure he had seen the weird Holmes kid lick his toad absentmindedly in the common room as he passed through on the way to the boys' dorm stairs, but John was a bit sleep depped due to his prefect duties, quidditch practice and fast approaching NEWTS. And everyone knew the kid was weird. It was clear he should have been in Ravenclaw where they knew what to do with scary intelligence and being so into something that you didn't eat, or talk, or wash (yuck) for days. Gryffindors were not sure what to do with him. The normal direct approach did not seem to work. It wasn't that Sherlock himself was not direct, oh Merlin was he direct!, but he didn't talk about himself. At all.

Then there was the fact that he practically bled house points, which did not help his popularity either. He just did not seem to be able to stop himself. His mouth would open and someone would be offended, a fight would break out and suddenly there would be tears, blood, or batboogies everywhere... Not that he was ever wrong, he had a way with secrets and puzzles it seemed. And the stories that came out of his potions class... If rumor was to be believed, he had told Snape to just bill damages to his father because he was experimenting. And Snape had, amazingly, not used him to polish his dragon hide boots nor chopped him up for pickled potions ingredients.

And no seriously, what was with the toad-licking? Was it some kind of weird pureblood aversion therapy in case he ever had to rescue a prince? John had to ask, because although it was late and he was tired from studying, homework, quidditch practice (and all the other pursuits of a red-blooded seventh year) and the kid was just weird, he was still sat alone in the common room licking a toad at midnight on a Wednesday and John was his prefect goddamnit!

"Holmes? Mate? Sherlock? That cannot be hygienic. Don't you think it's time to call it a night?"

The boy turned and fixed a glassy stare on him but still seemed to be regarding him closely.

"Merlin's balls! You are higher than a fucking kite." Swore John and dropped to his knees in front of the winged-back chair Sherlock and his toad were occupying to get a better look as he grabbed a thin, pale wrist to take the third year's (racing) pulse.

"Correct observation, 10 points to Gryffindor's goalie!"

"Okay, just sit tight. I'll get help..."

"I don't need help."

"But you are totally buzzed!"

"I know Watson, no need to state the obvious."

"Did somebody slip you something? Do you know what you took? Did the bloke have red hair?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Stupid people everywhere. You are a Muggleborn, why are you so naive? Of course I know what I took."

"And?" Asked John, who rapidly felt he was loosing control of the situation and that he, at any rate, needed an adult.

"Bufotenin."

"And what the bloody hell is that?"

"A hallucinogenic triptamino."

"Lovely, and where did it come from?"

"My toad."

"Of course", John decided that the best thing he could do for the kid was to get him to bed and let him sleep it off. He stood up, dusted off his knees and lifted the docile toad into his pocket. Sherlock started to protest but then he was lifted himself and carried up to the third year dorm.

That was much too easy, thought John setting the boy down on his bed (the only one with open curtains and surrounded by a bombsite of discarded papers) in the recovery position and pulling up the crumpled blankets.

"You sleep it off. I'll look after the toad. Good night Sherlock."

"Good night John." Came the quiet reply and John decided to make sure Sherlock made it to a few more meals.

* * *

"Mr Watson!" Professor Snape barked and John jumped. "Ten points from Gryffindor for daydreaming in my class."

"Sorry Sir." John replied. He had been feeling a bit weird all morning. Sherlock's toad starred at him oddly from the desk and the dungeon seemed very hot.

"Where did you get that toad?" Snape asked, suddenly focusing closer on the prefect than John was comfortable with.

"Found it in our common room last night. It must be someone's familiar, so I am keeping an eye on it until I get it back to them." All true thought John, and gave a slight smile in relief.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Have you handled it at all Mr Watson?"

"A bit, it's pretty docile."

"Get to the hospital wing and tell Madam Pomfrey to give you a good draft of special vitamin replenisher. I am keeping the toad."

"Yes Sir."

* * *

Special vitamin replenisher tasted a lot like sober-up potion John discovered, after Madam Pomfrey gave him a long and disapproving look.

As it was nearly lunch time when he was done in the infirmary, he headed back to Gryffindor Tower to see if Sherlock was about.

Sherlock was still in bed. Tucked up in the recovery position, just as John had left him.

"Holmes!" He said quietly. "Holmes, wake up. Sherlock!" He gave the waif a gentle shake.

"What do you want Watson?" Asked the grumpy heap of greasy curls just visible under the blankets.

"Get up, it's lunch time."

"So?"

"So? When did you last eat? You weigh nothing."

"Tuesday."

"Tuesday?!"

"Breakfast." Sherlock clarified helpfully. "Where is my toad?"

"Snape confiscated it. I guess you weren't kidding about the hallucinogenic whatzits."

"Professor Snape." Corrected Sherlock, finally giving a stretch and sitting up. "Why would I do that?"

"I thought you were high."

"I was."

"High and talking crap."

"I never talk crap." Sherlock sounded deeply offended. "I am up, are you planning on watching me get dressed too?"

"No! But get a quick shower. You smell like sour sweat."

"I imagine so."

Sherlock had of course been awake as soon as John came into the dorm. He had just decided to wait and see what the prefect would do. And John had touched him (through the blankets, but still ...) for the second time with no revulsion or intent to do violence.

He came back, thought Sherlock as he stood under the hot water. How interesting.

* * *

"I was beginning to think you had washed down a drain." John said when Sherlock sat next to him on the bench, looking at least fifty percent cleaner, just in time for pudding. "So I saved you some shepherd's pie, in case I had to come looking for you."

Sherlock grunted but accepted the plate.

"I am sorry about getting your familiar confiscated."

"He has fed it to Dumbledore's phoenix." Sherlock replied evenly. "It's the way I would have wanted him to go, if I'd thought about it."

"Say that again?" Said John who was not sure he believed his ears. Sherlock gave a huge, theatrical sigh;

"In an act of passive-aggression, probably caused by the fact that he loathes his job, Professor Snape has fed Bufo to Fawkes. The phoenix is showing classic signs of poisoning."

"Poisoning! That stuff is poisonous?!"

"Keep your voice down. The phoenix will be fine, they are immortal after all. Just not all that bright. Or possibly they have a very odd sense of humor. It will probably just have nasty diarrhea and make a mess of Dumbeldore's office."

"But you were licking it! And I touched it!"

"And Professor Snape had you detoxified and I have developed a high resistance, so stop being a baby Watson. I am thinking of moving on to iocane powder next."

"Is that a hallucinogenic whatever?"

"No, it is just poisonous."

"No. No Holmes. No! Will you stop trying to kill yourself on my watch Sherlock?"

"I'm not trying to kill myself."

"Then what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Experimenting, obviously."

"Why in Merlin's name are you not in Ravenclaw where you would be Sarah's problem, not mine?"

The only part of the muttered response John understood was "stupid hat".

* * *

"I saw you at the game today Holmes." John tossed the sentence into the quiet of the third year boys' dorm. Everyone else was in the common room celebrating Gryffindor beating Hufflepuff. There was no response, but the enticing smell coming from whatever the waif was brewing seemed to increase. The steam curled in a strange but vaguely familiar way as John watched from the doorway. "You weren't watching the game," he continued. "You were watching the snitch. Sherlock?"

There was a grunt followed by a pop and the intensity of the smell increased again. Sherlock made a point of never acknowledging anything John said unless he used his first name. He liked the way it sounded when John used it.

"Have you ever thought about trying out for seeker Sherlock?"

"Playing team sports will not suddenly turn me into a well-balanced, popular individual Watson. You are the man of the match, go back down there. I am sure you can finally persuade Miss Culpepper to snog you after your performance today."

"I only saw the snitch because I saw you watching it!"

"Yes John! You saw something you thought was odd, me being at a game but not watching the so-called action, you looked where I was looking, saw something no one else saw and acted in a fashion that allowed your team mate to win the game. You are not a complete idiot! Congratulations. Now go and get your kiss, but bare in mind that she has a penpal in Brazil that she is more than fond of."

* * *

Sherlock was trying not to think. It required a lot of effort. So he had transformed and gone for a run. Wolves think a lot less complicated thoughts than human geniuses are forced to, whether they want to or not.

His ears twitched as he heard footsteps at the bottom of the boys' dorm tower. Then his nose twitched and he caught the scent of his mate.

Damn it, just what he did not want to be thinking about.

His ears refused to calm down, rotating to focus on the footsteps. He was not going to let his tail wag though. He had that much dignity he could preserve. He wound his tail up and clamped it under a hind leg. The traitorous thing still twitched at the tip.

John came into the dorm and froze as he examined the form on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock ignored him of course, but his ears still rotated regardless.

"Is that you Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock gave him his best why are you asking stupid questions? look, which lost some of its force coming from a wolf. "Silly question. Who else would think it was perfectly normal to lie around at 9 pm in a darkened dorm as a sodding great wolf? I hope you are registered." Sherlock gave a huff and John looked at him more closely "What are you covered in? Where have you been? Is that mud?" He asked and reached out to rub a hand over Sherlock's fur. "Yuck." Was his official opinion. "What were you thinking going to bed like that?"

Uncomplicated wolf thoughts, thought Sherlock annoyedly. He put his head down and covered his eyes with his paws.

Then John did something that surprised him. He grabbed Sherlock's hairbrush and began using it to brush the mud out of his fur.

Sherlock tingled everywhere. Then his tongue hung out of its own accord. Bloody thing!

"Like that do you?" John asked, obviously amused.

Sherlock was forced to keep himself clamped against the bed to hide exactly how much he was enjoying John touching him. Even when he snagged a particularly muddy clump. Sherlock gave a shiver he desperately hoped John did not understand.

"We had a Scottish terrier when I was younger, used to love being brushed." John continued conversationally. Sherlock glared. "Yes, I know you are not to be compared with a terrier. Lets have your tail then, I bet you dragged it through all kinds of stuff, stalking leaves or something.."

Sherlock gave a warning growl as John reached towards his hind leg. John was not getting anywhere near his tail right now. It had been twitching against his erection and as a result was now a trifle sticky, as was his belly and the bedsheet.

"Or not. What are we going to do about the mud in your bed?"

Sherlock gave a grunt and vanished the whole load of incriminating bedding.

"Huh, didn't think of that, or know it was possible. But then I've never met a 15 year old animagus before, or any animagus except McGonnigal. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the rumors about the headboy a couple of years back. Might have prepared me better for you."

Sherlock shuddered, he thought that was a disgusting idea. He didn't want John anywhere near Voldicroft. He also didn't want to think about it so soon after his first sexual experience with another (unwitting) person.

"Anyway, I came by to let you know that you were right. Which no doubt makes you very pleased." Sherlock tilted his head.

"I got a couple of kisses and then she announced she didn't think it would work but her cousin has a thing for me."

Which was the other thing Sherlock did not want to think about.

His mate liked girls. He had come into the room smelling vaguely of one. But then, Sherlock reflected, he was leaving it smelling of Sherlock, which was how it should be as far as his wolf side was concerned. And he clearly did not object to touching Sherlock in either of his forms. So maybe it was just a question of habituation.

"Good night Sherlock, sleep well." John said and scratched his (still embarrassingly curly) ruff, before leaving him to ponder.

* * *

After that, Sherlock seemed to be everywhere that John was. And by Merlin was it annoying.

Keeping pace with him in wolf-form behind the bushes as he jogged with the quidditch team before breakfast, and scaring the shit out of him.

"What is that rubbish you've written Watson? I thought you wanted to pass your NEWTS?" Asked over his shoulder in the library, clearly having read his notes.

"Ahmm." From the other side of a convenient tapestry. "Just so you know, she's using you to make her ex jealous."

"Jumpers... Well if you insist on looking old before your time."

On the plus side, it did mean that Sherlock attended more meals, usually pressed up against John's right side on the bench, leaving both their dominant hands free to get on with whatever else currently needed to be done.

John even developed an unofficial quidditch position for him as he frequently attended practice but refused to join the team. Sherlock became Gryffindor's Spotter, which seemed to amuse him for reasons no one understood. It also amused him to only give the position of the snitch to John, who had to then work out how to pass this information to the actual Seeker whilst not getting distracted from his job as Keeper.

* * *

John left Hogwarts with a good selection of NEWTs and joined the army. It was a way to try and reconnect with his muggle family. The Watsons had been military men for generations. The army paid for him to study medicine. John was (unsurprisingly) not only good, but exceptional and went on to become a surgeon.

Then he was sent to war, where he was able to save a lot of lives, but had to take a few too. He did not like those days.

It was in Afghanistan that he met his first magical enemy combatant, and it was nothing like he had been expecting. DADA had given him the basics of dueling, but he had not been expecting to be attacked at night by a werewolf running wild. Bleeding from a deep bite in the thigh, John knew he was screwed. He had to treat the bite as best he could himself and confound his unit into believing he had been shot in the shoulder, then he had to confound his way back to Britain. Only there could he live with the curse and keep it controlled.

The trip back to Britain was quite hazy. He had undergone surgery for a bullet wound that he did not have. When he was taken off the plane, he felt the first "friendly" magical signature he had felt in years and forced his eyes open. He did not know the red-brown haired man looking down at him, but the look he was getting was familiar from somewhere.

"Werewolf." He croaked out. "Confounded everybody."

"I am sorry Doctor Watson. I will take care of it from here."

The drugs pulled him back under.

* * *

Sherlock left Hogwarts as soon as he was legally allowed, at the end of his fifth year, much to the relief of almost everyone. The two years without John were hellish, no one understood him, or listened to him, or touched him in a friendly manner. Sherlock had discovered he needed that touch to comfort and ground him.

He opted to sit his OWLs and then simply turned up to take the NEWTS he was interested in as well. His results were impressive, especially considering he took half of the exams two years early and without attending the classes. The Board of Governors wanted a review into the possible "dumbing down of exams", but the Headmaster pointed out that it was one student and that that student was a Holmes. The matter was dropped.

Sherlock left Britain and vanished off the radar, in so far as he had been on it at all, of the British magical community. Except for his mother, who somehow knew that letters sent the first year to Beauxbatons would be answered by her son, who, under heavy use of polyjuice was studying fey magic, particularly those subjects connected with illusion and elemental magic. The second year, a stereotypically good looking and gregarious Scandinavian, attracted the avid attention of several quidditch teams (and many of his fellow pupils) whilst playing Seeker and studying a curriculum focused on the dark arts at Durmstrang. He vanished after taking his exams, much to the disappointment of said teams (and pupils), and not even his mother knew where to find him for the next seven years.

When Sherlock reappeared at the family estate in Helmsley, he was paper thin and considerably taller than when he had last been seen. He had a very battered school trunk, enough letters after his name to start his own alphabet and a considerable infestation of nargles. He was sent to therapy for the nargles (where he wrote a paper on their infestation techniques that was heralded as "groundbreaking" by The Quibbler, but largely ignored by everyone else) and there was intense speculation about the contents of the trunk (which would not open) and the meaning behind the some of the more complicated letters.

* * *

John was angry as he limped through the park. He was useless to the Muggles, honorably discharged because of his "injuries" and he was an outcast to the wizards. His funds were low, his therapist was hopeless (not that he could tell her everything) and he was thirsty. Meeting Mike could not have come at a better time.

John did not recognize Sherlock until he said his name. It had been years, and the last time he had seen Sherlock, he had been the taller of the two and Sherlock's voice had not yet finished breaking. Sherlock seemed to find it hilarious.

"So...Werewolf." He said smirking, in what appeared to John to be an unnecessarily cheerful fashion, on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Is it a problem?"

"No at all, the flat we are looking at has a cellar. It's a bit damp but it could be made secure and you know I have a form that can safely ... remain with you. You already know my bad habits, but I play violin now too."

"Violin?"

"Helps me think."

"And what do you do?"

"I am a consulting detective."

"You work with the police?"

"And the aurors. And the department of Magical Meteorology, but I am not allowed to talk about that. Mycroft keeps letting them put Seals on me, the wankers."

"Hmm." Said John, wondering what was so secret about the weather.

"Here we are." He opened the door with a flourish.

"Merlin Sherlock! It looks just like your dorm!"

"Well, I guess I can straighten things up. A bit."

* * *

AN2 - You all totally know where that is going.

I did a Mystrade one too, but I don't think that will ever make it through the tubes to see the light of the great wide interwebs. I get too carried away with that ship.


End file.
